


Ends

by offensiveagentpie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, mention of child death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/offensiveagentpie/pseuds/offensiveagentpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The ends of Gregory Lestrade’s days are often harder to cope with than the ‘drag yourself out of bed and get on with it’ beginnings.</p><p>Part of the 100 prompts challenge: 03. Ends</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ends

The ends of Gregory Lestrade’s days are often harder to cope with than the ‘drag yourself out of bed and get on with it’ beginnings. By the time he returns to his modest flat, he feels like a stranger in his own home, as though the person he became over the course of the day isn’t someone who belongs there…or belongs anywhere for that matter.

The first thing he does is change his clothes. He can’t bear to be in his suit that doesn’t quite fit, any longer. He stands over the sink, wearing a faded t-shirt and pajama bottoms, and splashes water over his face. Looking in the mirror, he takes stock of the new lines, the tired eyes with deep shaded pockets beneath them, the darkening stubble, and he can’t help but think he looks like death warmed over.

He looks and feels so old; so much older than the face that’s been haunting him since 8:30 that morning. The kid was seven years old for fuck’s sake. No one should ever come washing up on the banks of the Thames, pale, cold and so, so still…let alone someone so young. He shakes his head violently and runs a hand through his hair with more force than is necessary. Entering the bedroom he stands for almost a full minute just staring at his bed.

Exhaustion is tugging at his body like a merciless puppeteer and yet he doesn’t feel like lying in bed at all. His eyes aren’t even trying to drift shut and he knows that sleep isn’t going to come easily tonight. Instead, he shuffles out to the living room, flops on the couch, and ignores the annoying spring poking him just under his ribs.

Nearly an hour of crap telly goes by and he barely registers it at all. He’s torn between feeling nothing and everything all at once. His mind is reeling and feeling blank at the same time. It’s only when he hears a knock at the door that he turns to check the time. It’s 3:48 in the morning. He knows that whoever it is must have something dreadfully important to tell him, but even for God himself, he doubts that he can care enough to move.

Three more knocks, a brief pause, some scraping, and the door opens. A voice in the back of Greg’s head is getting louder, instinct and years of training telling him to do something…he drags himself into sitting position and turns to see Mycroft Holmes standing in the small entry way.

“Inspector,” is all he says.

Thoughts begin to come together and Greg manages to grate out, “Is Sherlock okay?” 

It’s the only reason he can fathom for the elder Holmes’ sudden appearance. He had thought earlier, watching as Sherlock tried hard to hide something almost indefinable behind his cold scientific ramblings, that if ever there was a danger day for the consulting detective, this would be it.

The muscles in Mycroft’s neck go tight as he takes a deep breath. “He is in good care. I have already taken the necessary precautions and have left him in Doctor Watson’s capable hands.”

Greg nods in response and hopes that the two of them can indeed balance out this trauma in each other. “What do you need then?”

Mycroft adjusts a cuff link and Greg manages to be vaguely shocked at the fact that he looks slightly nervous as he does so. “I have come to assure myself that you are also taken care of. Are you alright?”

Of course he bloody well isn’t. But he understands the gesture. He’s said it enough times himself.

“Just another day on the job,” he says blankly. And for some reason that seems to be the thing that does it. He feels the tight burn begin in his throat and behind his eyes. The shame of crying in front of Mycroft doesn’t even register as he buries his face in his hands, slumping over his knees.

The couch dips beside him and he feels a warm arm come to rest against his back as he’s absolutely wrecked with sobs. It’s all he can do to keep from screaming as all of his muscles clench. Rage, sadness, and the feeling of ‘why the hell hadn’t there been something I could do?’ course through him, consuming him.

At some point, when his breaths aren’t coming and going like those of a drowning man, Mycroft leans him back on the couch and rests him against his shoulder. Greg doubts he’s ever touched, let alone cried on fabric so expensive. Resting there for a few moments, he gives Mycroft a watery sounding, “Thank you.”

Mycroft’s hand is rubbing calming circles against his back and he hums by way of response. The motion is repetitive and relaxing and before Greg can think anymore, he drifts slowly off to sleep.


End file.
